


all day in the sunshine

by words_unravel



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Community: no_tags, Laundry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:52:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1402051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/words_unravel/pseuds/words_unravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jon calls out as he comes through the door, but silence is the only thing that greets him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	all day in the sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> [ _Prompt:_ written for 2011 [](http://no-tags.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://no-tags.livejournal.com/)**no_tags** , Jon Walker/Brendon Urie - laundry day]
> 
> [ _Recipient:_ tbd]
> 
> [ _Warnings:_ Other than messing with some differences in age, none.]
> 
> [ _A/N:_ This is more than likely nowhere _near_ what the requester was hoping for, but I had a ridiculous amount of fun writing it. I hope it's enjoyed regardless. Also, please ignore any blindingly obvious historical inaccuracies.]

* * *

  
Jon calls out as he comes through the door, but silence is the only thing that greets him. He wanders up and down a few hallways, glancing in several rooms, but no one is around. The covers on Greta's bed are lightly mussed, but he can tell she hasn't been in there for some time. Her toys are normally strewn across the floor, but they've all been shoved into the box near the end of her bed.

Turning, he's startled by the appearance of one of the maids, Victoria. Inquiring the whereabouts of his ward, Jon watches her press her lips together, glancing down at her feet. It looks as though she's trying not to smile, Jon notes. However, after a moment she seems to collect herself and directs him toward the gardens. At his quiet thank you, she dips a quick curtsy and continues down the hallway.

~

Although Jon has spent most of the morning on the back of a horse, he cannot help but lift his face up to the sun as he steps outside once again. It takes a moment to make his way toward the back of the manor and as he nears the last corner, laughter rings through the air. Greta's voice is distinct, youthful and high; Jon would recognize it anywhere now. He slows, curious. Resting a hand along the stone of the manor, he quietly peers around the corner.

Greta should be wearing a bonnet, the sun at its peak, but Jon can see it lying in the grass a few yards away. The light glints off her hair, shining gold in the warm, late spring day. The smile on her face is wide, happiness so evident in her eyes that even at this distance, Jon can see it readily. There's no sign of the sadness that he has caught once too often in his own mirror these last few months. Watching Greta spin around on the grass, however, brings a smile.

The sound of male laughter startles Jon out his thoughts and he glances over to see a slight figure, arms stretching up to pin a corner of a sheet to the laundry line. Jon takes in the lean line of his body, staring at the boy's profile as he smiles over at Greta. A lock of hair, darker than Jon's own brown strands, falls across his forehead and Jon watches him shake it out of the way.

"I am sure your guardian will have something to say about that, Miss Greta." The voice is serious and deeper than Jon's expecting, but there's lightness behind it and kindness in the boy's gaze as he looks at Greta. Jon's shoulders drop; a tension he hadn't even been aware of until this moment, seeping away.

Greta flops gracelessly onto the grass near the laundry basket and Jon can see she has apparently cast her shoes to the same fate as her bonnet. He opens his mouth, ready to admonish her lack of decorum, when her next words stop him.

"Uncle Jonathan's been gone _forever_."

The words are plaintive, giving Jon pause. He watches a frown appear between her eyes as she hands a clothespin over. It unsettles him, both her unhappiness and the level of his own reaction to it. His stomach twists even further as she tucks her chin down and scowls. The boy looks down at Greta's bowed head, compassion evident in his soft smile.

"Pin, please," he prompts a moment later. His voice is firm and Greta shakes off whatever melancholy had settled in, passing another pin. The last corner of the sheet gets put into place. After a firm tug to straighten the material out, Greta's companion bends over to pull another item from the basket. Sharply snapping the new linen, he says, "I would enjoy it, Miss Greta, very much so. But I really do think your uncle should be here before we proceed."

This is obviously not the answer Greta wants and she whines, "But Cook says he's not supposed to return until the day after tomorrow!"

"Never the less, I believe it would be best to–Hey!"

Greta bounces a few steps out of reach, the basket of clothespins tucked neatly under one arm. Arms akimbo, the boy gives Greta a stern look, but even from where he's standing, Jon can tell he's trying not to laugh. Greta's struggling to keep a serious face as well and Jon nearly laughs aloud himself as she tosses back her head and states in an imperious manner, "You shall agree, Sir Brendon." Jon takes note of the name and watches as Greta continues. She sniffs delicately; emulating arrogance in such a perfect manner that Jon has to bite down on his thumb to keep from laughing.

"You shall agree," she repeats. "Lest I shall take these pins far, far away and your laundry will remain a poor, pitiful pile of, of–" She falters, unable to think of an adequate description and the boy– _Brendon_ –can no longer contain himself, laughter spilling out. Greta tries to look offended, but she's already starting to giggle as well.

Jon isn't quite sure why he chooses that moment to make his presence known, but he does. At his light cough, two heads turn immediately in his direction. He has a moment to take in the flash of uncertainty on Brendon's face before Greta squeals in delight, dropping the basket of pins and rushing toward him. Jon should chide her for the unladylike display, but the wide smile that spreads across her face makes his heart stutter instead, and he says nothing. His arms catch her easily as she throws herself at him and he lifts her high, wrapping her up in a tight embrace.

"Uncle Jonathan!" She squeezes his neck and Jon finds himself watching Brendon, seeing the way his eyes soften at Greta's excitement. He turns his attention to her as she exclaims, "You're home early! Cook said you wouldn't return for _days_ yet."

Amused at the exaggeration, Jon glances over at Brendon, grinning. It's returned without thought, as if the two of them share a secret, and Jon's breath catches at the way the smile lights up Brendon's face. Brendon's mouth is full, bright red, and his teeth are white and straight. Something must show on Jon's face because Brendon's smile falls away and his chin dips as he offers a quiet, "Sir."

There's puzzlement on Greta's face and from the corner of his eye, Jon sees her glance between the two of them. She's a ridiculously bright child, always curious. Jon forces himself to relax. He steps forward, keeping a hold of Greta with one arm and offering a hand with his other.

"I do not believe we have been acquainted. I'm–"

"You are Jonathan Walker, the master of the house." Brendon's swallows visibly at his interruption, then rushes on. "Miss Greta has spoke of you often." He frowns. "I mean–Not that we've talked about you. Or that she has spent all her time with me. It's just that Katy left the house on an abrupt engagement, you see–" This is news to Jon. "And I was ever so grateful to be employed and Cook wanted you to be here to hire another companion–one more suitable, of course–" Brendon's skin is lightly tanned, most likely from various laundry excursions out into the spring sun. Jon notes that the blush across Brendon's cheeks is most becoming. "But until you returned, I was around the most and therefore, it was coincidence and convenience that I would be the one to spend so much time with Miss Greta–"

Jon watches, amused, as Brendon stumbles to a stop. Finally, he states again, the tone of his voice resigned in its humiliation, "She's spoken of you often and in very high regard." Staring down at his feet, Brendon adds quickly, "Sir."

It's not until Greta giggles that Jon realizes he's been staring impolitely. Coughing lightly, he says, "I am grateful that you have managed to handle my niece here. She can be quite the handful." He looks down at Greta, running his fingers over her side; his brother had been quite ticklish in his youth. A second later, she's squirming away from his fingers, protesting in high, delighted laughter.

"I am not, Uncle! I am the most proper of young ladies–" Jon laughs and looks over to find Brendon with a hand to his mouth, eyes crinkled at the corners. Greta glares at the both of them, stating, "Brendon, you are not supposed to laugh at a lady unless she has been deliberate in her humor."

Brendon's eyes are warm and Jon can see the genuine affection as he answers, "Alas, Miss Greta, I do apologize. I had not realized that you were speaking of proper etiquette in such a fashion that was _not_ deliberate humor." There's a slight bow and then, "Please forgive me."

Jon keeps an eye on Brendon, but he can practically see the wheels turning in Greta's head. A moment later she demands, "For this slight on my honor, I require rep–recom–" She frowns, struggling for a moment before stating triumphantly, "Recompense!"

Brendon's eyebrows raise dramatically, wariness settling in almost immediately. Jon is fascinated by the ease with which every emotion displays itself across Brendon's face. Greta taps him on the shoulder, breaking into his thoughts. "I demand that Brendon give me pianoforte lessons."

"Miss Greta, I really do not think–" Brendon breaks in, stepping forward. Jon holds up a hand and asks his ward, "Does he have talent?"

Brendon makes a noise, but Greta's enthusiastic response overrides it easily. "He is absolutely _wonderful_ , Uncle Jonathan. He's played for us nearly every evening after supper and he even made Cook cry last night!"

In actuality, that _is_ suitably impressive. Cook is a no-nonsense woman, not usually moved by the frivolity of music and song and for such a response, Jon is indeed curious.

Greta continues, stating firmly, "And one day, Brendon and I will sing together. A duet," she adds decisively. "One that shall bring the world to its knees." She flings an arm out, nearly clipping Jon in the chin. Brendon's cheeks are again bright red. Jon hums, considering.

The instrument has been gathering dust, placed in the music room not long after Greta arrived. He remembers that night, the discussion of his late brother's estate with the family lawyer, McLynn, and the way Greta had burst into the library. In tears, she'd begged him not to sell the pianoforte. After a few moments, Jon learned that her mother had often played for her. Gruffly, McLynn had stated that the instrument was not likely to draw much interest at the auction house, and the next day it had arrived at the manor. He's not an accomplished player himself, doing nothing more than plunking out a simple tune on an occasion or two, and it seems a waste.

"Well," he finally says, watching as Brendon shifts from one foot to the other. The blush is fading from his skin and he looks anxious. Underneath that though, Jon is sure he sees something like a glimmer of hope.

"A little music never hurts." He looks at Brendon, stating gravely, "And an honest man makes his restitutions, does he not?"

There's a small smile at the corner of Brendon's mouth as he drops his chin in agreement; Jon finds himself unable to look away. Greta half-shouts her happiness then begins rambling immediately. When she squirms a moment later, wanting to be put down, Jon is unable to recall a word she's said.

They're standing there, Greta having moved on to regaling Brendon with her ideas and list of items that she wants to learn. Jon watches as Brendon listens intently and honestly, filing the information away even as he bends down to begin picking up the spilled clothespins. At one particular song, he nods enthusiastically and Greta gives him a brilliant smile. It's as though Jon no longer exists, the two of them wrapped up in their world of music. Disconcerted, Jon finds he wants to complain.

As though he were a child of Greta's age again. Ridiculous.

Instead, he bends down and picks up a clothespin lying in the grass nearby. Brendon looks over, startled, but accepts the clothespin with quiet thanks. Greta continues talking, words tripping over themselves, as he and Brendon gather pins.

Finally, Jon interrupts. "Lessons have been approved but there are chores that must be completed first." Her face falls and Brendon stiffens imperceptibly next to him, his hands stilling.

With a sigh, Jon rises, sweeping up the corner of a sheet and pinning it in place. Brendon immediately protests, standing quickly, but Jon ignores him. "We should probably help finish this laundry then. Don't you agree, Greta? The faster chores are done, the more time there will be to practice that remarkable duet you've promised."

Greta claps in delight and then begins to scramble about, picking up the remaining clothespins with the dedicated enthusiasm of one with an agenda. Jon cannot help but grin himself, glancing sideways to find Brendon staring at him.

"Thank you, sir," Brendon says after a moment, his voice quiet. His gaze is open, honest, and Jon finds himself further intrigued by this new addition to the manor.

Greta's laughter echoes in the air, and Jon nods in response, letting the sun soak its warmth into his skin. There'll be time to find out.  


**Author's Note:**

> [originally posted anonymously [here](http://community.livejournal.com/no_tags/40452.html) on 01/12/11]


End file.
